


When Cockle Shells Turn Silver Bells

by stbacchus



Category: Buffy: The Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stbacchus/pseuds/stbacchus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Willow undergoes three nights of purification with the coven in England, Giles heads out to the pub and meets a mysterious woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nice Night for a Purification Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. Written over the course of about three nights and a high fever. Wouldn't Giles be the perfect hero for a Wuthering Heights-style gothic romance?

Rupert Giles squinted into the sun as it set over Westbury. The coven had turned him out of their house, Triskele, for the evening, as they prepared some sort of cleansing ritual for Willow. It was simple enough; they would perform the ritual at midnight, so he needed to stay away until morning. Still, his thoughts were vague as he stepped out the door for the first downtime in nearly a month.

A cold wind bit through his leather duster as he started down the dirt path toward town. It felt like home. It soothed his nerves, worn from weeks of hard work with Willow. Her emotions were so raw and so powerful - and now she could project them. Rupert hoped the coven would find a way to control that particular power. It was tiring just to be near her when she was in that state.

Turning onto the main road, he found the local inn. A drink might not clear his head, but it would do him good regardless. He ordered a pint of stout and a bowl of stew, noting with pleasure that there was not a sprout nor an avocado to be seen. His thoughts lingered on Willow, who was as far from home as he had been in California. _There is nothing you can do for her now. Relax_ , he instructed himself. "Whiskey, neat," he instructed the barmaid. "Keep them coming."

"Storm's moving in," said an entering old-timer.

"Impossible. It was clear just a minute ago," said Rupert.

"Bet your bollocks?" said the old man with a cackle.

"Rather attached, thanks," Rupert said dryly. It might be a mystical storm brought about by the coven. It didn't matter. A moment later, the door flew open and slammed against the opposite wall. He could see outside that the old-timer was right; the wind was howling and rain was beginning to spatter on the welcome sign.

With the wind came a girl, a bit older than Willow and Buffy. She was dressed lightly, but she didn't shiver in the cold. She spoke to the bartender, who shook his head. Then she spoke to each of the barflies in turn, but it seemed that none of them could help her.

 _My turn_ , thought Rupert, watching her approach. "How do you do?"

"Pardon me, sir. But could you tell me where I could find -" she stopped dead, with a little gasp. She had a gentle Irish brogue.

"What?"

"Begging your pardon, sir. 'Twere nothing. Do you know a Cormac O'Grady?"

"Sorry, no. I'm not from here."

"Bath?"

"Do they have them here?"

"No, no. I - I must have the wrong person, please excuse me."

"Oh, _Bath_. As in my hometown, where I nearly forgot that I lived for a number of decades before moving to America." He smiled ruefully. Although his time in Sunnydale comprised only a small percentage of his total lifetime, it somehow loomed larger than the rest, even now.

The girl stared at him for so long he became uncomfortable. He smiled again, awkwardly. "You may as well stay in for the night, eh? No use going out in a storm."

She shook her head as though clearing away cobwebs. "But I must. I have a message for Cormac O'Grady."

"No message could be so important as to risk your life, could it?"

She gazed into his eyes for another long spell. "Maybe - maybe it wouldn't hurt?" She settled into the pub booth next to him, an appropriate distance away, but never taking her eyes off his face.

This time the silence was so uncomfortable he had to laugh. "Do I know you?"

"No," she said quickly, looking away at last.

"What's your name?"

"Aisling."

"Pretty. It means 'dream' in Gaelic, did you know that?"

She smiled shyly. "I've been told. And you are...?"

"Rupert. Giles. That means -"

"Shield-bearer."

"Now I'm sure you must have the advantage on me."

She hesitated. "I know your family, yes. Famous in Bath."

"A couple centuries ago, perhaps. What do you do, Aisling?"

"I am a keener, among other odd jobs."

"Fascinating. I didn't know those were still around."

"Fewer still where there aren't enough gentlemen about to keep us in from the rain." Her eyes sparkled. "What do you do, besides rescue fair maidens?"

He thought for a bit. "In all fairness, I must admit...sometimes the maidens rescue me."


	2. Nice Night for a Purification Ritual

Returning to the coven house the next morning, Rupert found the witches buzzing over breakfast. Willow greeted him with a huge smile.

"Ritual go well? How do you feel?" he asked.

" _Awesome_. I feel like - like I'm in a hot tub full of unicorns!" Willow paused, her expression blank. Then, perking back up, "And hugs. There are also hugs in the hot tub." She frowned. "Wait, that sounded wrong. Wool sweaters! And pie. A hot tub full of pie, that's me."

"Yes, you certainly are," he said, shooting at look at the coven's leader. The elder witch shrugged.

"She should be better by nightfall. Second ritual is tonight."

"What will she be doing until then?"

"Resting. Why don't you take her to the garden, Rupert?"

"Yeah!" Willow chimed in. "Then you can tell me all about the girl you met last night!"

"And then we can braid each other's hair and paint our toenails," Rupert muttered. He helped her up and out the door. She was unsteady on her feet, so he held her arm until they made it to the garden swing.

"Tell me about her," Willow said again. "I can feel her presence, no use getting all _Giles_ about it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know. You and Buffy, you bottle up your feelings. You're bottlers."

"I do not bottle!"

"So what's the problem? Let's talk about girls. It'll be fun." When he didn't say anything, her face fell a little. "If you really want to know," she said slowly, "it...hurt. The ritual. It felt like...being torn apart and put back together. Talk to me, I don't want to think about the next one."

He softened at that. "She...she's very beautiful."

Willow brightened. "What does she look like?"

"Black hair, fair skin, eyes like blue sapphires...she's Irish. Her name is Aisling. She's a keener."

"A what?"

"She sings songs of lament for the dead at wakes."

"Hmm..." Willow closed her eyes. "What else?"

"Actually, she wanted to know all about me. And I told her. Everything."

"About Buffy and the demons and everything?"

"Yes. Most women are put off by that kind of talk. She was...not."

"Did you get her number?"

"It wasn't that kind of night, Willow."

She opened one eye. "Maybe this is why you don't ever date, Giles. All work and no smoochies. Something to think about."

"She's on an errand. Leaving town as soon as she finds someone called Cormac O'Grady. Or doesn't find him here, I suppose. She's probably gone already."

"No, she'll be here for two more nights. I think...she wants to see you again."

"You know you aren't supposed to be -"

"I'm not doing anything, it's all just flowing into me." She opened the other eye. "It felt good, didn't it? Finally opening up. Yes...I'm sure it's a good thing."

"You're a meddlesome girl, aren't you?"

"Stop bottling."

" _I do not_ \- " he stopped and sighed, defeated. What good would lying do against someone who couldn't help reading his feelings? Willow was right, there was part of himself he always guarded, never letting anyone near...except for Jenny. It was dangerous for anyone to get close to him, and Jenny paid the price for it.

As that thought crossed his mind, Willow's face crumpled. "Her suffering is over," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's your own heart you're protecting."

"Are you sure you aren't talking about yourself?" he asked gently.

"I am...that's how I know I'm right about you."

* * *

Willow's condition deteriorated as the day wore on. When at last the witches shooed him out the door, he left with a palpable sense of relief.

Aisling was in the pub, just as Willow had said. Tonight she was wearing an impractically lightweight dress that swished around her ankles when she walked. Was she wearing jewelry? She had gone to some trouble, it seemed.

"You're upset," she said.

"Apparently I have no secrets today. Good evening to you, too."

"Begging your pardon," she murmured, again looking deep into his eyes. Although an act of intimacy, she seemed far away. He searched her eyes in return, but they were opaque and unfathomable as the ocean.

"I thought perhaps - " he began. "I felt like - well, does anyone ever sing for you?" He unslung his guitar from his back.

She took a long time to answer, and when she did, the word seemed to catch in her throat. "Never."

There were almost no patrons in the pub, and the few diehards looked to be finishing quickly. Expecting another storm, perhaps?

He chose a spot and sat down, and she settled down next to him. He sang slow songs, fast song, sweet songs, and hard songs. The playlist didn't matter, he simply followed his whim. Aisling followed too, delighting in each new song as if she had never heard music before. When finally he felt that it was time to stop, he had the strangest feeling that she was seeing him for the first time.

Rain pounded on the rooftop. So it was to be a stormy night after all. _All work and no smoochies_. He leaned in for a kiss, which she accepted, then returned.

But that was strange. Hadn't she been wearing a necklace? Bracelets? Must have been a trick of the light - he could see her jewelry, or was it –

Before he could fully process what he was seeing, she bolted across the room and out the door.

Rupert chased after her, but it was too late. She had vanished into the night.


	3. When Roses Bloom in Winter's Gloom

"Library," said Rupert the next morning.

"You don't want to go there," said a sturdy witch. "Willow's still recovering from the ritual last night."

"Why there, of all places?"

"She needed...space. Look, I wouldn't -"

Vague admonishments he did not need. Books, he needed. As soon as he entered the library, he sensed what was wrong before he saw. Dark Willow had asserted herself again - although if her hair was an accurate barometer, she was only about half evil. She was trapped inside some sort of mystical cage, hence the necessary "space."

"Rupert!" she said, with evident relish. "Was your sweet clover field where I said? Did you spend last night...plowing?"

"Evil is no excuse for vulgarity," he told her primly.

She directed a bolt of energy at him. The cage absorbed it, but the force made the bookshelves rattle.

"Took you long enough to get that she's not human. I sensed that right away."

"Clever girl. What is she, then?"

"Well...I could show you an illuminating text...if you let me out of here."

He continued leafing through books, not dignifying her statement with a response.

"Bored. Boring. To bore." Willow sighed. "All right, already."

She started humming the _Bewitched_ theme song. Wiggled her nose. A book flew off a shelf and landed in front of Rupert.

"You shouldn't be able to -"

Willow smiled. "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage."

"That isn't what Lovelace meant."

"It's an unconventional interpretation, admittedly."

"So is this. Aisling is not a banshee, Willow."

"Ooh. No points for skipping the homework. Demerits. See me after class."

Ignoring her, Rupert began to read. He never could resist the charm of a good book, and he soon found himself absorbed. When he finished, he sat staring at the page for so long it took Willow's voice to snap him out of his thoughts.

"Good story, huh? Romantic. The little maid fell in love with the aristocrat's son, and he repaid her affections by binding her into his service forever. Now instead of polishing the silver, she lets them know when someone's about to die."

Rupert turned the book towards her. "Do you know what this is?"

"Pretty picture?"

"My family crest. It's an earlier version than I'm familiar with, but it's - it's unmistakable."

"Wow. You're like the heroine of some gothic romance," said Willow.

"And father thought I'd never amount to anything."

He spent the rest of the day researching, corroborating and cross-referencing. As sundown neared, Willow grew more restless. At last, one of the coven came to send Rupert away.

"Hey," said Willow. "Check out the cliffs north of town." She ran her tongue over her lips. "Rip a bodice for me, Rupert."

* * *

The evening was overcast and windy, cutting him as he rode his horse along the cliffs.

As Willow had said, Aisling was standing at the edge. Her voice carried on the wind.

 _Must I be born with so little art,  
As to love a man who'll break my heart?  
When cockle shells turn silver bells,  
Then will my love come back to me._

Rupert tied Incitatus and walked toward the cliff, wondering what he'd even say to her. Before the last note disappeared on the breeze, she wavered and fell forward off the cliff. With a shout, he jumped after her. It was an insane, ludicrous thing to do. He didn't even think about it, just reached out as far as he could and...

He caught her ankle. He pulled her back.

She let loose a furious stream of Gaelic exhorting him to let go, leave her be, she knew what she was doing. "I'm saving your life!" she finished breathlessly. "I sang my own lament - instead of yours."

Rupert looked out at the sun setting over the sea. Clouds were gathering and a few lazy drops splashed down on them. "A life for a life?" he said thoughtfully.

"I've known since midnight."

"So that's why you disappeared so suddenly."

The wind picked up and the sky darkened. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled a moment later. The storm was near. They needed to find cover. He led her to Incitatus and they rode towards town. As the storm grew wilder around them, they were forced to stop and take shelter in a stable.

"Let me go," Aisling said as soon as they were safely inside. "If I die, I win your life and my freedom both."

"You aren't a servant anymore...Rose Connelly."

She was surprised, but her snowy cheeks had no color to lose. "It's been some time since anyone has called me that. I suppose you know my woeful tale, then." She tilted her head to the side. "You have his eyes, you know. That's why I was drawn to you. Even now..."

He ran a finger gently over the marking on her neck. "You can lift this curse by dying, yes. But I think you would be braver to choose the alternative."

They were close now, so close. The sweet scent of hay and leather hung heavy in the air.

"You need only wish to be free. Unlock your heart and the enchantment will lift."

"How do you know? Can you be so sure?"

"I saw it happen last night. For a brief moment, you were free. Couldn't you feel it?"

Eyes brimming, she wrapped her arms around him and they kissed greedily, desperately. Her breath seemed torn from her breast like the wind tearing across the valley, her cheeks flushed with passion.

At last, the storm died down and left a steady patter of rain against the roof. Aisling stood looking out the window at the full moon shining steadily despite the clouds.

"Will you come back to town with me?" he asked.

"I think not," she said. "I'd like to live a spell outside my cage before locking myself back in."

With a wink, she disappeared into the bright blue night.

* * *

It was just before sunrise when Rupert made his way back to Triskele. Even without entering, he could tell Willow had had a rough night. He made his way to her room, where she was huddled on her bed, eyes bloodshot and face tear-streaked. She turned her face up at him.

He sat down next to her. "You'd feel better after these rituals if you didn't fight them so much, you know."

"I hate you," she said. Her voice rasped when she spoke. "I wish you had killed me. Why didn't you kill me?"

He thought for a moment. Truthfully, he had not wanted to face this question, even to himself. He had risked his own life and the fate of the world to save her, a frankly irresponsible act that had gone over better than it had any right to.

"Selfishness."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sometimes I forget how young you are," he said affectionately. "You think your heart will bleed like this every time. It won't."

"You're just lying to make me feel better."

"No, I'm afraid not. What I'm saying is that every scar makes it harder to find the part that's still living, until one day you can't feel anything at all. That day was not the day for me."

She was silent for a long time. The sun blazed in the east.

"She's gone," Willow said at last. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"There are things in this world that are only beautiful because they are ephemeral. If we were meant to love forever, or live forever, we'd be..."

"...Vampires."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the names: Incitatus was the name of the horse that Emperor Caligula promoted to the Roman Senate, an act that might have been crazy or scathingly satirical, depending who you ask. Rose Connelly is the murder victim in the Irish folk song "Down in the Willow Garden." The triskele/triskelion is a common motif in Celtic art.


End file.
